by A. L. Barker
He had stood there bemused by the wonderful pink triangle they made, her lips and her breasts. And as if that wasn’t enough to happen to a man on his way to work, she had leaned out and said, “Come in for a minute, it’s all right, Jack’s asleep like the dead.”
“I can’t, I have to go.”
Her face clouded, it really could lose heart as if an outside sun had been covered up.
“You’re always going somewhere, you’re never here when I want you.”
“When do you want me?”
“If I start to think about you I can’t stop. But I suppose there’ll be an end sometime,” she said sadly.
He had wanted to ask what she thought, but outside her window at eight-thirty a.m. was not the place nor time.
“I don’t believe it will be long now.” She had lifted her nightdress over her shoulder and it immediately slid off and down again to her elbow. Riveted, he watched it catch on the same pink point of the same imagined triangle. “Soon I’ll have thought of everything you can do.”
“You won’t,” he said fervently, “I promise you you won’t,” and it seemed to bring out the sun again. She laughed, putting her head back and he had marvelled – as he was continually marvelling at something about her – how the scrap of nylon or chiffon or whatever it was clung to the point which wasn’t so much a point as a bud.
“Wasn’t it funny last night – Jack introducing you to his mother?”
“Very funny.”
“You knowing her all the time and she knew you, I could see.” If she wanted to think so and it made her happy, he wouldn’t ask why at the moment. “I put her off though, didn’t I? She doesn’t know what to think now. But be careful, she’ll be watching you. She’ll catch your breath for you. When I was first married she used to spy on me. She doesn’t trust me, she thinks I’m not true to Jack. You don’t know what she’s like.”
“I’m supposed to though, aren’t I?” he had gently reminded her.
*
What did she expect to find at Thorne? He looked for it himself that week-end, he was ready to put it there, whatever it might be.
But Thorne was Emmy’s, there was scarcely a trace of Bertha, let alone himself. The way the chairs stood and the grass grew was Emmy’s. There were some stuffed ibex heads and Gurkha knives. Would Marise be satisfied with those?
“Why does Emmy keep them?” he suddenly said to Bertha.
“Keep what?”
“These severed heads.”
Bertha looked at them in surprise. “They were the Colonel’s trophies. Of course she keeps them.”
“Would you keep my trophies?”
Her surprise turned on him. “You don’t have any.”
“No severed heads.”
“You aren’t the sort of man who likes to kill things.”
“If I were, I wouldn’t make it so obvious.’
Marise had said. “You don’t want to be remembered,” and if she was talking about Ralph Shilling she was right. He had no children, no talent, no trophies, he made no marks. But was she talking about him?
“Of course I should do the same, I should keep your things,” said Bertha, “if I lost you.”
“My razor and my umbrella, there’s nothing else.”
Yes, Thorne was Emmy’s and although Marise had imagination he couldn’t see her making Thorne into John Brown’s. The idea made him smile.
‘I expect I should keep your umbrella, you so often carry it, it would seem like a link with you.” Bertha looked anxious. “Is anything the matter?”
“I daresay you’re right, an umbrella’s more my symbol than severed heads and knives.”
“Why are we talking like this? I didn’t know they upset you, you’ve never said so before.” Bertha took his hand. “You see, the Colonel was such an outdoor man, he didn’t have time to think much. And he had no head for business, he was only trained for the Army. Hunting was his hobby, it’s only the same as if he’d collected stamps, you might say he had nothing to leave but his dead animals.” She pressed his hand to her cheek. “An umbrella gives shelter.”
Ralph watched her turn her lips into his palm. Her skin was soft, dry soft and rather thin and sometimes he felt in danger of breaking through Bertha’s skin. He withdrew his hand.
“Do you still go to Chelmsford on Tuesdays?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Just changing the subject.” He could feel her waiting, beginning to be prey to thoughts and fears that had their turn all the week and came round, like dragons on a roundabout, when he was not there.
“We haven’t planned anything for this weekend, with Emmy not feeling well, but of course if you mind, if you find it too quiet we can go out, we could have the car or we could ask someone to make up a bridge four –”
“I was merely wondering if Emmy is up to going to Chelmsford.”
“She wants to get some darker curtains for her room. It faces east and she can’t sleep after daybreak, just when she feels like sleeping, she says.”
Emmy had changed her bedroom to one on the other side of the house. There had been some improvement in her health, but not enough Bertha thought.
“I’ve asked Dr Chinn to call. I’m worried about her, she’s not herself. I’ve never known her this way before.”
“You’ve known her other ways and they’ve all of them been Emmy. Remember when she took up charity committee work? We couldn’t speak without an agenda. Then it was local politics, she and Chinn playing the power game. There’s a ton of campaign paper still in the garage.”
“She’s not taking up anything, Ralph, she’s ill, and I don’t need the fingers of one hand to count the number of times she’s been ill in her life. She had measles and she had her tonsils out. Nothing else. She’s never had any time for sickness – her own or anyone’s.”
“She won’t thank you for calling in Chinn.”
“He’s going to let it seem as if he was just dropping by.”
“People don’t just drop by at Thorne you know that. It’s geographically impossible, they have to set out to arrive.”
“He’s promised to be tactful.”
“And Chinn doesn’t drop by anywhere, he’s called to a place or he descends upon it.”
“Help me, please dear,” pleaded Bertha.
So Ralph tried. They were finishing their coffee that evening when the doctor’s car drew up.
“Are we expecting anyone?” said Emmy. She had eaten a lightly boiled egg, or rather she had eaten the yolk and with a sharp gesture had crushed the shell and the white between her fingers. Ralph had reflected that she destroyed what she did not want as a matter of principle, some principle which didn’t do her much credit.
“I believe it’s Dr Chinn’s car,” said Bertha from the window.
“What does he want?”
“Hadn’t we better put the whisky away?”
“Why?”
“I don’t think it does you any good, dear.”
“What’s that to do with Chinn?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Bertha said miserably.
Ralph picked up the decanter. “Bert’s thinking about the look of the thing.”
“Put it down. I can look as I like in my own house.”
She moved the decanter to the middle of the table, grumbling at him, “You’re a fine one to talk about the look of the thing,” and he nearly said, One of the finest.
Bertha, opening the door, overdid her cry of, “It is Dr Chinn!” as if they hadn’t dared hope for so much.
“Good evening.” He creased his smooth equine face at them. “Dear ladies.”
“Nice of you to drop in,” said Ralph.
“Shilling?” The doctor always seemed to feel that there was some question about Ralph.
“Come and sit down,” Emmy invited him. “We’ve just finished supper. Will you have a whisky?”
“A taste, thank you. I cannot stay, Mrs Chinn and I are to be the guests of the Young Conservatives tonight.”
Emmeline poured a whisky for him and another for herself. “Then is there something we can do?”
The doctor glanced at Bertha, raising his brows.
“You’re a busy man,” said Emmy, “too busy to drive a mile up our track just for a drink. Though don’t think you aren’t welcome at any time.”
“I was passing and it seemed neighbourly to call.”
“Bringing your black bag?”
“It’s only the same as the elephant bringing his trunk,” said Ralph.
“We think it’s very kind of the doctor to come,” said Bertha. “Don’t we?”
Dr Chinn put down his bag and took up the whisky. “Do I see you well, Shilling?”
“Ralph has rude health,” said Emmeline.
“Health is never rude, it is a gift of God.” The doctor looked at her and Emmy lowered her head and looked at him over her pink rims like a bloodhound. “You were feeling a little below par when last we met.”
“I’m as well as can be expected.”
“Which is not well at all!” cried Bertha.
“Expectation, the lack of it, is a symptom. As your friend and medical man I would recommend you to optimism, dear lady.”
“She doesn’t eat properly and she can’t sleep. I found her walking in the garden at two o’clock this morning. –”
“I was testing a theory. My brother-in-law knows all about it.”
Dr Chinn turned to stare at Ralph.
“As an expert he’s ready to learn. He should be, shouldn’t he?” said Emmy.
“Ralph’s not sure yet,” Bertha hurried to explain. “He does like to be sure.”
“Deterrents have come into our lives,” Emmy went on. “From now on we shall have to be deterred from pretty nearly everything.”
“Nonsense!” declared Dr Chinn vigorously. “Life is as full of possibilities as an egg is of meat.”
Emmy nodded. “Egg production is an example, but the battery system can only be the thin end of the wedge for us. To debeak and immobilise us won’t solve the problem of space. We shall have to be stopped. Slowed down –” she pushed her glass across the table until it crashed against the whisky decanter – “and stopped.”
Dr Chinn looked again at Bertha and Bertha looked at Ralph who wondered how many drinks Emmy had had. There were scarcely two fingers left in the decanter.
“But I don’t intend to be slowed down or stopped fortuitously because Arnold chose the wrong place to live.”
Dr Chinn fixed her with a strongly twinkling eye. “If you will allow me to examine you, dear lady, I may save you the expense of moving house.”
“Have you something in your bag to measure ionisation?”
“Something like a voltameter,” suggested Ralph, “for the terrestrial rays?”
Dr Chinn did not smile at other people’s jokes though he sometimes bared his teeth. “I should be the last to put a brake on progress, Shilling, and I am well aware of the paramount need for increased food production. As a medical man I am also aware of the dangers. We are tampering with the delicate balance of Nature.”
“I believe Emmy thinks that Nature is tampering with her balance.”
“Why examine the tree?” said Emmy. “The lightning comes from another place.”
Bertha said, “Oh dear, I’m so sorry, doctor.” and Emmy asked, “Why be sorry? Dr Chinn is here socially, he’s not disappointed because there hasn’t been a chance for him to use his stethoscope.”
“But he could prescribe something to help you sleep –”
“I am suffering – and so are you – from over exposure to a magnetic field. Pills won’t remedy that.”
“Are you feeling unwell, dear lady?” Dr Chinn asked Bertha.
“I sometimes get a little tired –”
“She also gets tingling sensations in her finger-tips, like a mild electric shock. There is a force striking from under the ground and up through the walls. Imagine it,” Emmy urged them, “a hostile current, a kind of undomesticated circuit through the house.”
“We should call in an electrician,” said Ralph and they all looked at him as if he were a long way off. “I’m a non-conductor, I don’t feel anything here.” They didn’t know how true that was.
Dr Chinn picked up his bag. “If you change your mind, Mrs Openshaw, you know where I am.”
While Bertha was showing him out Ralph told Emmy, “This visit will cost you double.”
“Why should it cost me anything?”
“He’ll fine you for contempt of his professional services.”
Emmy’s brows moved out of their pencilled line. “You’re in a mood, what’s happened to you?”
He didn’t say that he was being taken for a murderer, nor that the taker was so rare that he would rather she took him for a murderer than not at all.
“You were on Chinn’s side,” said Emmy, “but he wouldn’t have you.”
“I’m not on any side.”
“I know you’re not on mine.” She splashed the last of the whisky into her glass.
“I agree with Bert, that doesn’t do you any good.”
“It does me the only good. Look upon it as a placebo to comfort something between a canker and a technical hitch.”
“Look here, Emmy, there’s nothing wrong with you or with the house.”
“There’s nothing right with me, either, is there?” She stood up, confronting him in a rage of appeal. It was a knack she had, quite a knack, of putting an answered question and brandishing her defeat.
But the blaze of honesty surprised him. She wouldn’t forgive him for it, he knew. She had never forgiven him since the Isle of Wight ferry.
“Don’t be a fool, Emmy.” He didn’t say, “I chose Bertha because I didn’t feel up to you.” He said, “If anything happened to you, I’d be done –” which was true, and “We cherish you,” which he could afford to say.
She steadied herself with fingers braced on the table. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to say that to me.”
She put her face into her hands. “I should say it to Bertha.”
Bertha came back looking troubled. “I’m afraid he was put out.”
“He’ll get over it when he sends his bill,” said Ralph.
“I do wish you’d take advice, dear.” Bertha touched Emmy’s hair, her fingers hesitating over the alert waves.
“I have,” said Emmy, and turning bulkily went out of the room.
“What does she mean?”
“I hope she’s starting to believe what I keep telling her – that there’s nothing the matter with her or with Thorne.”
“You haven’t seen her as I have. She’s better when you’re here. I’ve tried to get her to bed for a few days, at least it would give her somewhere to be. She seems so out of place.”
“She can’t stay in bed.”
“Why not?”
Not if it meant that she would be there on Tuesday. She mustn’t – they mustn’t either of them be at Thorne on Tuesday.
“It’s the wrong thing for her. She shouldn’t be encouraged to sit around or lie around, brooding. She needs a change of scene, she needs people.”
“People?”
“Take her shopping. Women love shopping, don’t they? Take her to Chelmsford.”
“Do you think so?” Bertha sounded wistful more than hopeful. “You may be right, dear.”
“It’s what Chinn would prescribe, it’s only common sense but he’d wrap it up – ‘Dear lady, life is an egg full of meat’.”
“There is a sale next week. Emmy might like to go on Monday.”
“Go on Tuesday, don’t you always go shopping on Tuesday?”
“The sale starts on Monday –”
“It’s too soon.” Her bewilderment oiled his tongue, “I think she should rest a day or two, try to get her strength. Tuesday will be fine, not too soon, not too late.”
“If she’s well enough, we’ll go.”
“She’s got to be well enough!
”
Bertha’s jaw dropped a little and her mouth opened. She did not understand but she wished to.
He put his arm round her. “I mean she’s got nothing wrong with her physically.”
“I wish I was as sure.”
“Well, why aren’t you? If I say so?” He shook her gently. “Now go and make us some more coffee, there’s a good girl. Mine’s gone cold.”
She said wonderingly, “You are sure.”
When he was alone he returned to the question that was on his mind. What was Marise going to see at Thorne? What did he want her to see? A place fit for John Brown to live in? What did the house of an unconvicted murderer with a knack with women look like? He couldn’t for the life of him think what she would make of it.
Then all at once he realised that he could safely leave it to her. She’d make something, she always did, she made something of everything. Including himself, especially himself – on the face of it no more promising than this place.
The relief was wonderful. He might even look forward to seeing what she made of Thorne, he knew he would prefer it to Emmy’s version. But perhaps he was wrong about the face of it because on his face, anyway, she had seen plenty of promise.
To Bertha, coming in with coffee, he said, “Would you say I look like John Brown?”
“Who, dear?”
“You remember John Brown, he got away with murder.”
She answered indignantly, as he had known she would, “Of course you don’t.”
“How do you know? Have you ever seen him?”
“What a thing to say!” It was no less an offence because he had said it of himself.
“I’m told I’m his double.”
“Who told you?”
“Someone who actually knew him. I’m surprised you don’t remember the case, it was memorable.”
“I do remember.” She filled his cup and dashed the spoon into the saucer. “I remember it very well. He was vile and I can’t think why you want to look like him.”
